Stoker Speaks Out
by Kelmin
Summary: PRE-SLASH. Don't like? Don't read. Ch. 1: Ever wonder why Mike Stoker is so reserved? A brush fire and its aftermath get him talking. Ch. 2: Now for the John Gage POV. What if he's NOT oblivious to 90% of what goes on around him, like Roy thinks?
1. Mike's POV

Disclaimer: This story is for fun, not profit. I do not own the characters. Universal and Mark VII do. Please do not sue me.

**Stoker Speaks Out**

This may sound perverse, but every now and then I really enjoy a good brush fire.

Really.

All the other kinds of calls we get around here – structure fires, dumpster fires, MVAs, and all the random and strange calls we assist DeSoto and Gage on – my jobs there are pretty bland. Run the pumps, figure gpm's and psi's, all that jazz. Don't get me wrong – I love my job, and I don't regret becoming an engineer. But every now and then, I have the hankering to get up close and personal with The Beast.

And brush fires are the only chance I get at that any more. Unless I'm subbing for a fireman at another station, which, truth be told, I don't do all that much. I have it pretty good at 51s, and I know it. The guys on my shift know I'm just quiet, not unfriendly. I keep my distance, while still being a part of the team. They're okay with that. They don't try to draw me out of my shell, or anything like that. I _like_ my shell – it's comfortable and safe.

At a brush fire, usually what happens is that the incident commander will assign our entire crew to attack one flank of the fire, or the head, or hit some spot fires. Sometimes I'm still with the truck, but sometimes we all get assigned to work on a firebreak or we all get sent out to man hoses. So, every now and again, I actually get to man an attack line – just like the good ol' days.

Again, at the risk of sounding strange – not that it would be the first time – every now and then I love to get close to the fire, feel the heat, feel the power of quenching the flames. I'm not even a true adrenaline junkie like some of the guys, but I don't think there's a fireman alive who wouldn't agree with me that it's a thrill and a half sometimes.

Of course, the flip side of the adventure and excitement coin is all the times that you're so scared you practically shit yourself. If you make it out alive, you sure have something to brag about to the girls later. Yeah, right. Not real motivating for a guy like me, if you catch my drift.

So when we got called in to relieve 127s at a brush fire on their edge of the county, the other guys were bummed – we were assigned to a digging crew, in front of the head of the fire. Digging down to mineral earth to stop the dragon in its tracks. If the wind cooperated.

When we got there, it was already clear that the wind hadn't cooperated. The prevailing wind had been from the northwest all day, but shifted so it was straight from the north by the time we got there. We got the call on the radio when we were about a mile out that we should meet up with Battalion 14 and man their attack lines with them.

Cap knew that would please me. He understands perfectly. He has even fewer opportunities than I do to really get into the action. We exchanged looks of restrained – 'cause hey, it's me – glee as Cap responded to the new instructions.

Chief McConnike assigned me and Cap to man a 1-1/2 off their pumper. Chet and Marco each got a 1-inch hose for spot fires. Johnny and Roy took over for 127's paramedics at the aid station right by our section of the fire. We'd all need our eyes washed out for sure – this fire was making nasty black smoke, and plenty of it.

It was a tricky patch of terrain. The head of the fire was rolling down a steep slope, which meant we'd have our backs towards downhill. Put that together with the pressure from a fire hose, the wind coming towards us, and the heat pressure from the fire – well, it was a recipe for someone to take a tumble. So I was glad to have Cap backing me up.

The area was covered with a combination of dry brush and grass, as well as some cacti. My personal least favorite variety, the Devil's Pincushion, a.k.a. the "horse-crippler," was all over the place. These nasty little plants look like an exploding firework, with three- or four-inch-long spikes coming out in all directions from a central hub. You _don't_ want to step on these guys, regardless of whether you're a horse. They're only supposed to grow in Texas, but some idiot must've decided they'd look nice in his garden, 'cause now L.A. County has 'em.

Cap and I laid the inch-and-a-half, running it from a water thief fitting on the progressive hose lay that 127s had set up with Battalion 14. The two of us were to hit the head of the right flank of this section of the fire. 127s had almost had this section licked – the 'dozer crews had cut a beautiful containment line, which the fire's head had just about reached, when the wind changed.

A couple of the guys from 127s had a pretty close call when that happened. It's no fun to be working the flank of a brush fire when it suddenly becomes the rolling head of the fire. That's one of those "flip side" things. But thanks to the wonders of modern technology – radios, aerial water drops – they made it out alive and unharmed. But I'll bet they're changing their pants right about now.

Cap took off the hose clamp to charge our line. We headed up the slope, towards our target.

"Helluva place to be working," commented Cap, as we puffed our way up the incline. "If we weren't so close to that ranch on the next hillside, we would probably just let this part go."

"Yep." Cap knew not to expect much more of a reply from me.

We started hitting the flames with the fog. Slowly, surely, we were gaining on the head of the fire, hoping to meet the crew working the other flank halfway around the perimeter and put this beast down. The wind, though it had shifted suddenly just before we arrived, had calmed considerably in the last few minutes. Both the captain and I knew not to get cocky, though.

After half an hour, we'd just about gotten to the end of the reach of our line. It was time to close it down and add a new section to the end of the main line, and work off of there.

"Okay, Stoker, let's do it," announced Cap. I didn't have to ask him what he meant; I knew the drill just fine after ten years in the department. I shut off the nozzle, and clamped off the hose again. The two of us trotted back to the engine to grab a 200-foot section of inch-and-a-half to add to the main line on our flank.

I was watching my feet carefully to avoid the horse-cripplers that were sprinkled over the area. But Cap wasn't – or maybe he stepped in a hole, or tripped on a rock. Who knows. In any case, he skidded down the dusty slope, slamming into me and taking me down with him. I reflexively put my hands out in front of me to break my fall. Damned reflexes. Something snapped in my left arm, and my right hand found purchase on a – yep – horse crippler.

"Shiiiiiit."

"Mike? You all right?" Cap appeared unscathed.

"No, goddammit, I am _not_ all right. Fuck!" The sudden pain made me uncharacteristically verbose.

I couldn't really decide which hurt more – my right hand, impaled by the cactus, through the glove and all, or my left arm, twisted underneath me, where something really wasn't right down by my wrist, and maybe somewhere else, too. Six or eight three-inch spines went all the way through my glove from the palm side, emerging from the back of the glove.

I decided that if I didn't actually _look _at my right hand, the left arm hurt worse. I couldn't even get up off the ground – no hands to push myself up with. I also didn't really want to stay where I was – downhill and downwind of a brush fire is not a place to lounge around, no matter how comfy you are. Which I wasn't.

Cap took one look at my impaled hand. He grabbed his HT. "Battalion 14, this is HT 51; we are coming in to the aid station with a Code I; be aware that the eastern flank is now unmanned." He turned back to me. "Geez, Stoker, ow! Sorry, I took you right down. Man, that looks painful."

"Yeah, and my left arm's broken, too, I think," I added. I was starting to feel nauseous. Me and blood don't agree with each other. Or maybe it was the pain. I dunno.

"All right, we've gotta get you outta here," said Cap, eyeing the fire. "Um, what happens if you pick your hand up?" he asked, pointing to the cactus.

I didn't really want to try that, but also didn't really want to lie in the path of a brush fire all afternoon either, so I lifted my right hand carefully. Disgustingly, but I suppose luckily, the spines lifted easily off the cactus, and stayed in my hand. Lovely.

"Uh, that's good, I guess," said Cap. "Anything else hurt on that side?"

"Dunno." I couldn't even shake my head.

"All right. Sorry, pal, this is gonna hurt, but we gotta get out of here," warned Cap, as he hauled me to my feet by my right elbow.

I yelled loudly, and felt even more like I was gonna puke. I wobbled heavily as Cap held me up by the lapels of my turnout coat for a moment. "Can you walk?" he asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth. I wanted to cradle my impaled right hand and carry it like a baby, but I couldn't seem to get my left arm to do anything. So, I just let Cap partly lead and partly drag me over to the aid station. I noticed he was limping – perhaps he was _not_ completely unscathed. He limped me over to the running board of the squad – the closest place to sit – as Gage and DeSoto snapped into action.

"Mike, Cap? What happened?" Johnny asked.

"I'm fine," Cap lied, "but Mike here sounds like his left arm may be broken, and his right hand, well, you can see it there."

"Oh, man," said Johnny, "bad luck, Stoker. Horse crippler, huh? Roy, grab the biophone, will ya?"

"Sure thing, Junior," replied Roy.

I always wondered why Gage put up with that nickname. Hafta ask him sometime.

Gage scrunched up his face in that boyish expression that means he's trying to figure something out. "I dunno, Mike, do you think you can get that right hand outta the sleeve, there, or should I just cut off that coat?"

Despite my pain, I practically laughed out loud. Much though I relished the thought of John Gage slicing my clothing off, this was not _exactly_ what I had in mind. Instead, I replied, a bit shakily, "I'll try."

He looked askance at me, but started undoing the buckles on my turnout coat. "All right, let's see what happens." Once he'd gently loosened the Velcro cuff, I tried inching my hand up the sleeve. I got about an eighth of the way up when the spines snagged on the lining of the coat.

"Uh, snagged. Not working," I admitted.

Roy took my pulse and counted respirations, and started calling in on the biophone, as Johnny rummaged in his kit for heavy shears.

"Rampart, we have a code I at a brush fire. Male, 29 years old, probable broken left wrist. His right hand and glove are impaled through-and-through by multiple cactus spines. No other apparent injuries. Pulse 100, respirations 24, stand by for BP."

I had my reputation as the quiet one to uphold, so I gritted my teeth as every bite the shears took out of the coat jostled the cactus spines or the broken ends of bones. From wrist to shoulder to lapel, up the right side, then the left, and I was free. Well, free except for the glove nailed to my right hand by cactus spines.

The corpse of my coat looked pathetic lying on the ground. It was a good coat – served me well for many years – but its time had come. Now I'd have to break in a stiff new coat, like a probie in his first week out of the academy.

Johnny had the BP cuff ready. "Sorry, man, it's gonna hurt no matter which side I pick, ain't it." It wasn't a question.

"This one hurts less," I said, holding out my right arm. "But looks pretty gross."

He wrapped the cuff gently around my right arm, pumped it up, and let the air out in a gentle hiss. "125 over 75, Roy," he said.

Roy relayed the new but uninteresting information to Rampart base.

"10-4, 51, immobilize the wrist and transport. Do not attempt to remove the glove or cactus spines; we'll deal with the hand here."

Roy grabbed the splint box and passed it over to Johnny.

"All right, Mike, you heard the man. Let's get that wrist splinted up and get you to Rampart. Can you move your arm at the elbow so it's level with the ground, like this?" He demonstrated.

I tried – I really did. But for some reason my shoulder wasn't working at all. "Uh, I think maybe something's wrong with my shoulder, too. Funny, it doesn't hurt much."

Gage frowned. He placed one hand on the back of my shoulder, and another on the front, and pressed together gently, as if making a shoulder sandwich.

"Oooo-kay, NOW it hurts," I gasped. Shit. All of a sudden, the pain just tripled. Quintupled. Hot knives lanced their way from my shoulder to my wrist and neck.

"Mike, I think you dislocated your shoulder, too," Johnny informed me. I believed him. I wanted to curl up in a ball, which the two paramedics sometimes called "going fetal," but I couldn't.

Roy got back on the biophone. "Rampart, County 51, our victim appears to also have a dislocated left shoulder, and is having significant pain after palpation of this injury."

"51, does the collarbone appear to be fractured?"

Through the pain I could tell Johnny was gently running my collarbone, feeling for fractures. "That hurt at all, Mike?"

I shook my head. Mistake. Just don't move, Mikey.

"That's negative, Rampart," Roy responded after Johnny shook his head as well.

"10-4, 51. Start an IV, D5W to keep open, administer ten milligrams MS IV, immobilize the shoulder and wrist, and transport."

"10-4, Rampart. Will re-establish contact, with an ETA, when we're in transit."

"Aaah, crap," I uttered. I knew that all meant that not only would I have to go in to the hospital, but I'd have to go in an ambulance, and not just ride in to Rampart in the squad.

Roy was getting out the drug box and what I recognized as an IV pack. Meanwhile, Cap checked in with the base station on his HT. "Base Station, this is HT 51; respond an ambulance to our location for a code I. Paramedics are on scene."

Squelch. "10-4, 51, ambulance is on its way."

"So I guess you got all that, huh, Mike?" Johnny asked me.

"Yep," I replied tersely, having learned my lesson about nodding or shaking my head.

"I'm gonna place the IV in your cactus arm, not your busted one, okay pal? And then when the pain medication comes on board, you'll feel a whole lot better, and we'll splint you up."

"'kay." He started looking for a good vein in my right arm.

"I'll tell ya somethin', Mike; I don't think I've ever seen someone dislocate his shoulder and not know it right away," said Johnny, as he started searching for a vein. "Geez, Stoker, where do you keep your veins? Inside your bones? Roy, take a look at this, will ya?" he complained.

Roy looked at my arm, and said wryly, "I guess we can't ask you to make a tight fist, can we?"

"Ha, ha." Two syllables from between clenched teeth – not bad.

"Here, Johnny, try this one." Roy marked a vein with his pen, holding the IV bag in his teeth.

"Oh yeah, I see it now. If you can see it, you can stick it, right Roy?" He turned to me. "Dixie's Rule One for starting an IV on the first try."

Cap spoke up from his place on the ground near the bumper. "Wow, you guys are really reassuring." I noticed he hadn't gotten up since we arrived. Also not so reassuring. Bet he busted something too, and just isn't saying. Typical.

I felt the cold of the alcohol wipe – refreshing in this heat. And then the sharp pinch of the IV needle.

"Hah, first try, even on ol' spaghetti veins here." He pulled the needle out of the IV catheter, and taped the whole mess down. "Okay, Mike, meet your new friend, morphine sulfate. Mike: MS. MS: Mike."

"Pleased to meet you," I said. As he slowly injected the drug through the IV injection port, I stopped caring how my shoulder and wrist felt; didn't mind looking at my spine-impaled hand and glove. It was kind of interesting, actually. "Ya know, I don't think I actually need to go in to Rampart. You can just tape this shoulder up, or something, right? Hey Gage, check this out – how 'bout if I just pull these spines out – I'll bet I can get 'em with my teeth—"

"Whoa, there, Mike." Johnny put a restraining hand on my right forearm. "There's a reason why they wanna take those out at Rampart – sterile conditions and all, ya know?"

I grinned hugely at him. "Okay, Johnny, whatever you say." Darn, but he looked cute with that smudge of soot on his forehead. I thought I'd just lay back and do whatever he said.

"Attaboy, Mike." Johnny started rolling up a blanket from the squad's supplies. I watched the ripple of his forearm muscles, fascinated by his long, deceptively delicate-looking fingers as they taped the blanket into a cylinder.

"Wow," I said aloud.

"Yeah, that stuff knocks ya for a loop, don't it," replied Gage, obviously – and fortunately – misunderstanding. "All right, let's get that shoulder splinted, then we'll take care of the wrist. Hey Roy," he continued, turning to his partner, who was reloading all their junk into the squad, "gimme a hand here, will ya?"

"Uh-oh, is this gonna hurt? Or bleed, or anything? 'Cause I'm not so good with this stuff, guys, really. One time when I was a kid? I had to get stitches in my knee, and I'll tell ya, I barfed all over the place! My brother thought it was really hilarious—OOOOWWWW! Quit it, DeSoto!"

"Sorry, Mike; just gotta get this roll under your arm, here," Roy said soothingly. "John, I think this shirt is gonna have to come off to do this right. Kinda tight on the shoulder here."

Oooh, is he gonna take his shirt off? That'll be nice. I always liked—huh? Scissors? Oh, _**my**_ shirt. Well, shoot.

"Waita second! C'mon, man, you already cut up my coat, do ya gotta cut up my shirt too? I mean, I've got a lot of these, and they're _really_ boring shirts, but c'mon, can't you just undo the buttons? That's what they're _for_, man. Don't they teach you anything in—"

"All right, all right! Settle down, Mike." Was Gage laughing at me? He _was_! "Have it your way, chatterbox. It'll be a little tricky to get the IV bag through the sleeve, but we'll manage. Now hold still!"

I tried, I really tried. I thought I could take it, but he was getting so _close_ to me, and unbuttoning my shirt, so I just leaned forwards, just a _teensy_ bit. Just a teensy bit too _much_, apparently, as I nearly toppled right onto him. He caught me, though – I knew he would.

"Ah, Roy, can you hold our friend up, there, so I can finish this without getting crushed?"

"Gotcha, Mike," said Roy. Darn – not so interesting having _his_ hand on my bare chest. Oh well. I watched in fascination as Gage placed the rolled blanket under my elbow, and wrapped a stretchy bandage around my upper arm and chest, deftly avoiding wrapping Roy up into the bundle.

Deee-licious. What _was_ that aftershave? As far as I was concerned, they oughta just call it Sex in a Bottle. Yum. I leaned forward again, a _tiny_ bit, and inhaled. Surreptitiously, I _thought_. 'Cause after all, a guy's gotta breathe, right? Right?

I must've actually moaned out loud a bit – oops – 'cause Gage just said, "I know, buddy, it smarts, but I'm almost done."

But Roy looked at me weirdly.

"Whaaaat?" I drawled accusingly at him. "Can't a guy just—"

Roy interrupted me. "Hey Johnny, lemme finish up with Mike's wrist here; I think you oughta take a look at Cap. I think he did something to his leg, and isn't bothering to mention it."

"Huh?" Gage looked up from his task. "Oh, okay. You sure you got Mike, here?"

"Yeah, I think I can get this situation under control," Roy said blandly. "You go look after Cap." He shooed Johnny away with his free hand. Party pooper.

The ambulance pulled up on the fire road just behind us. I could see its flashy light thingies through the smoke. The two guys in the tacky white outfits brought their stretcher down the hill carefully, as Roy finished, boringly, with my wrist. I wasn't watching him, though – it was _much_ more interesting to see what Johnny was doing. Man moves like a cat – no, a mountain lion. That's it – puma. Oops, Mikey, no staring. Aw, poor Cap – looks like maybe he sprained his ankle. Thought so. Ha ha, he just gets his _boot_ taken off by those hands – I got my _shirt_ taken off. Nyah, nyah.

"Hey, eyes front, soldier," Roy chided. "Need you to help me out, here. Let's get you on this gurney. Just slide down off the running board, good, just like that." He and the two tacky guys helped me onto the gurney, which was arranged so I could sit up.

"Hey, guys, didja see this?" I waved my cactus hand at the Mayfair attendants. "Neat, huh? It's horse crippler spines, heh heh. I landed right on it. Cap knocked me down; it was his fault. That's him down there—" I waved the spiny hand at Cap'n Stanley. "And my good friend John had to cut my coat off, with scissors!" I chuckled. "Not my shirt, though. No, sir, that came off the regular way, nice and easy. No problemo. Oh – and didn't anyone tell you you shouldn't wear white to a brush fire? It's just gonna get all—"

"Stoker!" Roy got my attention.

"Hey, Roy, what's up?"

"Mike, I never thought in a million years I'd ever have to say this to _you_, but SHUT UP!"

* * *

"Rampart, County 51, how do you read?"

Good ol' Roy, riding in with me. So where's Cap and Gage?

"We read you loud and clear. Go ahead, 51."

"Rampart, we are in transit; ETA twenty minutes. The victim's shoulder and wrist are splinted, and his pain has responded to the MS. Vitals appear stable: pulse is 70 and strong, BP 120/70, respirations 12 and regular."

"10-4, 51. Advise us of any change en route."

"Rampart, I have one more advisement. A second code I is en route in the squad, with an apparent sprained ankle; ETA about 25 minutes."

"We copy, 51. Rampart out."

I realized it was my turn to talk, finally. "Hey Roy, you shoulda seen the look on Cap's face after he knocked me down, and saw my hand stuck on the cactus! It was priceless! Priceless! I thought he was gonna have kittens, or maybe puppies! And then, when he got me back to the aid station? Well, I knew I was in good hands. The _best_ hands."

I sighed dreamily. "Yeah, he's got _great_ hands. Efficient, but gentle, yet strong, at the same time. What a combination! Don'tcha think, Roy?"

DeSoto was looking at me with an amused expression. Why was everyone suddenly laughing at me? A guy gets hurt, and people think it's funny? Sheesh.

"Well, Mike, I have to admit," he began, "all I've ever really noticed is that Gage's hands are good at their job. And that's it." He raised his eyebrows at me – laughing at me _again_? – and went on. "And, I'm starting to realize why you hardly _ever_ say anything, Mike."

Oooops.

"Uh, have I been, like, talking a _lot_? _Too_ much?" I nearly stabbed myself in the face, trying to cover up my mouth with the one hand that I could still move.

"Skirtin' the edge, Mike, skirtin' the edge." Roy shook his head.

I managed to shut up for a few minutes. But I had a burning question that just _had_ to come out. And I knew, just knew, that good ol' Roy would know the answer. And if he played dumb, or really _didn't_ get it, but I thought he probably actually _did_, well, I could just say "never mind" or something like that.

"Hey Roy? Do you think that the guys, you know, _**know**_?"

He looked at me all serious-like. "No, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's figured out you're gay, Mike."

"Aw, did ya hafta actually _say_ it?" I scowled at him.

"Yeah, Mike, I did – to show you I'm okay with it."

Well, _that_ was unexpected. Waaaiit a second. "Uh, Roy, you're not – I mean, that's _your_ wife, and _your_ kids, right? I mean, they look _just_ like you – the kids, that is, not the wife – and Joanne seems—"

"No, I'm not passing, Mike – Joanne is really my wife, and the kids are really my kids. Scout's honor," he said seriously, holding up three fingers.

"But how did you know?" I asked plaintively. "No, I don't mean how did you know they're your kids, I mean, I know how that works, for Pete's sake, but how could you tell about _me_? I thought I was being sooooooo careful. I hardly ever say anything, unless I'm high like right now – lemme tell ya, man, I am like reealllly up there like a kite – and I go out with girls and stuff, and I don't ogle – well, at least not very much, but sometimes I can't help it, so where'd I go wrong?"

He frowned. "I don't really think you went wrong, Mike. Only thing I can think, is that one of my cousins, who was also my good friend when I was a kid, is gay, so maybe that helped me figure you out. I dunno."

I pondered that. "So how long have you known?" I had to ask.

"Oh, I wondered the first year our shift was together, was _pretty_ sure after that, but I'll tell you, Mr. Motormouth, I wasn't totally sure till today. Pal, that MS totally wiped your inhibitions, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I think maybe I oughta just try not to say anything at all till this shit wears off, 'cause boy, once I get talking, I'm just not shuttin' up, am I. In fact – hey, wait a second – you're not gonna _**tell**_, are you?" I asked in horror.

Now he laughed for real. "No, Mike, I'm not gonna 'tell.' But I'm a little concerned that _you_ might, by accident. I mean, Gage is pretty oblivious to about ninety percent of what goes on around him, fortunately for you just now, but maybe I'll just arrange to keep the two of you separated for a while, avert some potential disasters that way.

"And one more thing, Mike. Hey, are you listening? You probably know this already, but I gotta tell you, you're barking up the wrong tree with Johnny, man," he added solemnly.

I sighed heavily. "Yeah, I know Roy, but it doesn't hurt to _look_, does it?"

"Mike, there's looking, and then there's _**looking**_. And just now? I hate to tell you this, but you were definitely _**looking**_."

"Yeah, I figured. Broke my number-one deal with myself, there: no _**looking**_. But how are you gonna keep him away from me? I mean, he's bringing Cap in, and he'll probably wanna check on me and all that, so how do you keep him out when I'm all doped up? Cause I'll tell ya, _I'm_ not gonna tell him to leave. Uh-uh. No, siree. He can cut my clothes off any time, and I won't try to stop him. So how—"

Roy rolled his eyes at me. "Mike, put a cork in it, all right? This is the kind of time for a little white lie. If I just fib a little, and tell him that you're so freaked out by the cactus spines that you're gonna puke and you don't want _any_ of the guys to see, he can't argue with that, can he?"

That Roy, he's just so smart and reasonable, I had to agree with him. "Well, that's fair. It's true, too – not really even a fib. 'Cause damn, look how _gross_ this is! How are they gonna fix this up, anyhow? No, on second thought, I don't actually want to know. I'll just close my eyes, and think pleasant thoughts – but not TOO pleasant – and just not look at what's going on, and that'll be fine, right? Even if it bleeds, Roy. 'Cause man, if it bleeds, then I'm really—"

Roy waggled a large roll of adhesive tape near my mouth. "Am I gonna have to use this?" he asked, jokingly.

"Shutting up. Shutting up."

**The End**


	2. Johnny's POV

In Chapter 1, Roy told Mike that "Gage is pretty oblivious to about ninety percent of what goes on around him, fortunately for you just now." I don't think he really was, do you? Here's Johnny's POV. Thanks to Jelsemium for putting the idea in my head.

Teaser:

"Roy thinks Rule One is 'Don't get emotionally involved with the patient.' Hah. Shows what he knows. That's maybe Rule Three or Four. Rule One is actually 'Don't get involved with anyone who has fewer than three degrees of separation from the L.A. County Fire Department. Unless they're female.' _That's_ Rule One. And unlike so many other rules in my world, this one ain't meant to be broken."

~!~!~!~!~

One of the tough things about working rehab at a brush fire is you know you're gonna get patients—you just don't know how bad they're gonna be. And you can be pretty sure that every single patient is gonna be a guy you know. Washing a guy's eyes out—you know you're gonna do that. You can also bet on having to treat some guys for heat exhaustion, too. Maybe a couple of IVs, with a free trip to Rampart—or wherever's closest—for really bad dehydration. But there's always that chance that something will really go sour, and in a wildland fire, "sour" could be anything from a simple trip and fall—and man, the guys _hate_ it when something like that happens, let me tell you—to a glancing blow from a widow-maker, to the worst of the worst, which I'm not even gonna get into. Because I don't wanna think about it. And me? I'm really, _really_ good at not thinking about what I don't wanna think about. It's a survival skill, right? And that's what I do: I survive.

So me and Roy, we just sat there waiting for our first patients to turn up. It didn't take long—two guys I'm sure I'd met before but couldn't recognize for the soot all over their faces came stumbling over to the canopy we'd set up so there could be some hint of shade in this misery of heat. Tears from their bloodshot eyes made clownish tracks through the soot on their faces. I could tell the one guy was workin' real hard not to claw his own eyes out—he's first, then.

"Eyes, huh?" I asked, as the second guy led the first guy to sit down on the running board of the squad.

"You better fuckin' believe it," said the first guy.

"I'm Gage—what's your name?" I knew I'd seen him before, but with the back of his coat against the squad I couldn't read the name.

"Bob Irvine, Station 36, fuck! Ow, fuckin' ow! I think I have a cinder in my left eye."

"All right—lemme just wash 'em both out, first, and then I'll take a look. C'mon—you know the drill—I know it sucks, but I gotta hold your eye open." I tipped back his head, and quickly rinsed the soot out of his right eye. His left eye remained clamped shut as I tried to pry it open, and he nearly knocked me down flailing his hands around. "Sorry, man—but sit on your hands, all right? It's just a reflex to try to grab at your eyes, but you can't do it, all right?"

He swore at me some more, but I didn't mind. I mean, I see people at their worst, right? Plus, everyone's got their things, and I'll bet one of his things is eyes. Me? Yeah, I've got my things. I can take a lotta stuff, but the things that get me every time are compound fractures and bad burns. Blood? Fine. Puke? Bring it on—I can take it. But my two things I can't deal with—Roy knows 'em, and he takes the lead on those when he can.

Roy's got his things, too. For him, it's impalement. Doesn't matter how big, how small, what, or where—that's what gets him. Anything that's not people parts, stickin' out of somethin' that _is_ people parts—Roy can't take that. So for today, let's just hope that everyone keeps their bones inside of 'em, and their skin on 'em, and doesn't get anything stuck through 'em.

Irvine cussed a blue streak at me, and I had to get his partner to hold him still while I held his eye open. I could see the cinder—didn't look like it was embedded, so it'd probably wash out just fine. Didn't figure he'd want a running monologue, though, so I just did it. Took a couple tries, but the cinder washed right out.

"All right, Irvine—it's out. Hang on—don't rub your eyes—they're still pretty irritated."

"It _isn't_ out! I can still feel it—it's still there!" He was sounding a little panicky—yep, definitely has a thing about eyes.

His partner helped out. "Bob, I could see it in there, and then the last time Gage here poured stuff in your eye, I saw it come out. So it's out, all right?"

"So how come I can still feel it?"

"There's a lotta nerves in the covering of your eyeball, okay? It feels like it's still there, because the lining of your eye is irritated. It's just like if you get a crumb down your windpipe, and you know you coughed it up, but you keep on hacking, right? Same thing," I reassured him.

The partner helped out again. "Why don't we gear down for a few minutes, Bob, and get some water—we were about due for a break anyhow. And if it's still buggin' you after that, we'll see, all right?"

"Yeah." Bob stood up and unbuckled his coat. "All right. Thanks, Gage," he said, turning to go.

"No problem." See? I can be patient when I have to. 'Cause everybody's got their things.

Roy and I didn't see Irvine again, so we figured he musta been okay. We watched the smoke—it seemed particularly nasty, for some reason—maybe somethin' about the plants in the area. Who knows. I'm not a fan of the desert, myself. Give me mountains, lakes, and trees—that's what I like.

So why am I in L.A.? Simple—when you're a kid, you go where your parents go, and my parents, for some reason, decided that L.A. was the place to be. And then I went to the fire academy here, and got a job here, and, well, I'm still here. Thought for a while about maybe moving up to the Bay Area, for a number of reasons, but it just never seemed like the right time. Besides—I like the crew on my shift. People mind their own business—they don't nag, or dig, or pry. As long as I keep feeding them bullshit about all my escapades with the girls from Rampart, they don't get on my case.

Don't get me wrong—I don't make stuff up. That wouldn't be fair to my dates. But I always conveniently leave out the parts about how I'll take a gal out a couple times, and then she's suddenly too busy, or politely uninterested, or whatever. I don't know what I do that's so off-putting, but it must be something, 'cause that's how it pretty much always ends up, unless it's just a girl who's looking for a good time with no strings, in which case I happily oblige and then we go our separate ways, no hard feelings. Either way, though, there was never much of a, I don't know, a connection, I guess. So the whole girl-chasing thing was starting to get kinda tiring, but I knew I had to keep doing it.

I leave out a lotta other stuff, too. Like the _other_ half of my dating life. Which is a story for another time. And which I _don't_ do in L.A. It's a big city, in a big county—but not big enough.

Another pair of guys came marching down the hill to get their eyes washed out. One of the guys didn't look so good, so I took his vitals, and his temperature, and sure enough, Rampart said to stand him down till he rehydrated and his temp was back to normal. We geared him down, and misted him with fog from a reel line, and sat him in the shade of an engine with a canteen. We figured he'd be fine in an hour.

Roy pointed over to a hill a couple hundred yards away. There were two guys coming towards us—the taller one of 'em kinda holding the other one up. The taller guy was limping, and the other guy—you could tell from how the first guy was kind of holding him up and dragging him along that something wasn't right.

"I see 'em," I said. And—oh shit—the taller guy had a skunk stripe on his helmet, and there's only one Captain around here who's that tall and lanky, so it meant we were getting Cap and Mike. I was pretty sure Roy couldn't see as far as me, so I filled him in.

"It's Cap and Stoker," I said. "Cap's limping, but I think it's Mike that's hurt worse. You wanna take Cap, and I'll deal with Mike?"

"Let's see what we've got, first," said Roy.

Cap and Mike stumbled closer. I could see there must be something wrong with Stoker's arms—both of 'em—because on ground like this, you don't walk with both your arms hangin' straight down—it's just not natural. You wave 'em around a bit to keep your balance.

As they got closer, I rushed to join them. "Mike? Cap? What happened?"

Cap was holding Stoker up by his lapels. With his free hand, he gestured a "thumbs down" to me behind Mike's back.

"I'm fine," Cap said, though I wasn't sure he was entirely believable. "But Mike here sounds like his left arm may be broken, and his right hand, well, you can see it there."

I could indeed—this was definitely a patient I would have to handle, because Mike's right hand was impaled, through and through, by a whole bunch of really long cactus spines. And his whole upper body was oddly positioned—it was gonna be tough to get that coat off, though, to see what was goin' on.

"Oh, man," I said, grimacing at the look of the spines. "Bad luck, Stoker. Horse crippler, huh? Roy, grab the biophone, will ya?"

"Sure thing, Junior." Yeah, Roy didn't mind not looking at that hand, that's for sure.

I frowned at Mike's coat, trying to think of how we could possibly get it off him without cutting it off. It just didn't look like the hand with all the spikes in it could possibly go through the sleeve, and we sure as heck weren't gonna deal with the cactus spines out here.

"I dunno, Mike, do you think you can get that right hand outta the sleeve, there, or should I just cut off that coat?"

For just a second, I could've sworn I saw a very un-Stoker-like grin on Mike's face. But that must've been my imagination. Because, really, what's amusing about whatever just happened to the poor guy? Anyhow, he must really have not wanted me to cut that coat off, because he said he'd try to just slide his hand through.

Really, there was no way that was gonna work—but I helped him with the buckles on the front of the turnout coat anyhow, and loosened the Velcro on the right cuff as far as it would go. He started to inch his right hand up the sleeve, but there was no way it was gonna work, and Mike realized that pretty quick. I mean, he's got big hands to begin with, and with the spines through and through, his right hand was like an oversized pincushion.

"Uh, snagged. Not working," he said.

No kidding.

I don't know what the deal with him and my shears was, but as soon as I started cutting on that coat, he just got all quiet. Quieter than usual, even. I made a mental note to see about some shears that would do a faster job on turnouts, because it took a good couple minutes to get that coat off him. And yeah, it musta really been hurtin' him, too, because he just sat there and looked anywhere but at what I was doing.

He's an interesting one, Mike Stoker is. Most guys, in this situation, would be cranking out the jokes to try to take the attention—theirs and everyone else's—away from their discomfort. Or else they'd be cussin' me out like Bob Irvine did a little while ago. Or they'd be puttin' on the whole tough-guy act. Anything but silence. But that's Mike's specialty. I know some guys get creeped out by silence—but not me. I'd see Mike and Chet together sometimes, doing chores or what have you. and Chet would go to great lengths to fill the silence. Not that it was hard for him—he always has somethin' to say.

I never mind the silence, though. In fact, sometimes when Chet and Marco get real crazy around the station—which usually happens if it's been a really boring shift—I'll go up the hose tower out back just to get a little peace. Sometimes Stoker would already be out there, at the picnic table we've got in the back lot. Then I'd skip the tower, and we'd just sit there and have a nice quiet cup of coffee or something while Chet and Marco burned off steam inside. The first time we just sat there quietly like that, I sorta thought maybe he was thinking I was trying to psych him out—to play "silence chicken" with him, see who would flinch first. But I wasn't. I just like peace and quiet sometimes, and he's peaceful and quiet.

But this silence, now, was getting a little unnerving. The only thing I could think was I must really be hurting him, so I tried to just get it done as fast as I could. So I chomped the shears up his right sleeve, all the way up to the neck, and then did the same on the left side—I mean, I could've slid it off that side, probably, but he looked like he was really hurtin', and I couldn't see what was going on over on that side yet, and the coat was a goner anyhow.

Once that coat was cut up enough, I pulled the front from the back and tossed the whole mess aside so I could get a BP on him real quick. I held up my BP cuff and looked at him.

"Sorry, man, it's gonna hurt no matter which side I pick, ain't it." Maybe he'd at least be able to tell me which arm to pick so I wouldn't hurt him as bad.

He obligingly held his right arm out. "This one hurts less, but looks pretty gross."

Usually if I'm getting a BP on a patient who's sitting up in front of me, I kind of grab their hand between my arm and my body, you know, to hold their arm up and kind of still while I'm getting the readings. But with all those spines in his hand, that wouldn't work, so I sat next to him instead, and held his forearm up across my lap so I wouldn't mess with those spines. It musta really hurt when I moved his arm, though, because as soon as I touched him he kind of jerked a little bit—like he wasn't expecting it or something. I looked up to try to get a read on how he was feeling, and there it was again—that funny smile. Just for a second, though.

"125 over 75, Roy," I said to Roy, who was relaying all our information to Rampart. I heard Dr. Early on the other end say to splint the left wrist and transport, so I went to it. I took a look at that left wrist—I couldn't feel a fracture, but that's where Cap had said the problem was, so that's where I started. But he still just wasn't moving that arm—something funny goin' on there.

I didn't want to move it for him—partly cause I didn't wanna hurt him any more, and partly cause I wanted to see what would happen when he tried to move it. You can sometimes get more information by watching than by asking.

"All right, Mike, you heard the man. Let's get that wrist splinted up and get you to Rampart. Can you move your arm at the elbow so it's level with the ground, like this?" I showed him how he should move his arm, as Roy passed me the splint box.

I watched Mike as he tried to move that arm. No quirky smile this time, nuh-uh. He was tryin' to move that arm, and nothing was happening, and I caught a glint of what looked like panic, if I was reading him right. Which I'm pretty sure I was. I don't know what that little smile was about, before, but now I was definitely seeing panic.

Even with the panic I saw in his eyes as he tried to move his arm and he couldn't, Mike's words came out completely calmly. "Uh, I think maybe something's wrong with my shoulder, too. Funny, it doesn't hurt much."

I leaned back a bit, and took a better look at his shoulders. Sure enough, the left one seemed to be riding a little low. Hard to tell with his uniform shirt still on, but it looked that way to me. But if it was dislocated, it'd be hurtin' real bad by now, and when I wasn't messing with him, he seemed okay.

Nothin' for it—I had to check that shoulder out, and if it was really dislocated, it'd hurt like hell.

I leaned back in again, and put one hand on either side, as gently as I could. My heart sank as I felt that the ball of the humerus was definitely popped out of its socket, and it sank even further as I heard him finally make some noise.

"Ooooo-kay," he said, somehow managing to turn a clenched groan into a word at the last minute. I was still holding onto him, and I could feel the tension escalate in his chest and back. "_Now_ it hurts."

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry_, the voice in my head was saying. It's hard enough, you know, when you have a patient who's a total stranger and what you're doing is hurting them. And it's worse if it's a guy you know, even just a little bit, or even if they're a fireman you've just met, like Irvine. But when it's one of your buddies from your shift? Man, that's the worst. And I hurt Mike—I know I did. I knew he wouldn't blame me—I wasn't worried about that. But I had that sick feeling in my gut, 'cause I knew it was gonna get worse before it got better.

I tried to stay as neutral as possible when I told him what was going on. I don't think my voice was shaking _too_ bad. "Mike, I think you dislocated your shoulder, too."

Man, I knew how bad that hurt. I've only done it once, when I was a teenager, but that was enough for me. Roy got on the biophone and reported back in to Rampart. They wanted me to check his collarbone, so I did. I kept one hand on his back, just to kinda hold him up a little, and ran my fingers as gently as I could along his clavicle. I didn't feel anything out of the ordinary—no sharpness or deformities, none of that crackly sponginess you sometimes get with clavicle fractures. And either I wasn't hurting him too much this time, or the pain he was finally feeling from his shoulder was covering anything I was doing. "That hurt at all, Mike?"

He shook his head, and I saw him go even greener than he was before. Shoot—I shoulda told him not to nod or shake his head, and just say "yes" or "no."

I listened with relief as Dr. Early gave orders for MS—and not a puny little take-the-edge-off dose either. Mike would get a man-sized 10 mg, which I was glad of, because he really looked like he needed it. He was sweaty, but cold, and I could feel him shaking a little from where I was holding on to him. Plus, the ride in would be a bitch, and the reduction—well, it would be unpleasant enough even when he was loaded with MS and muscle relaxants. After Dr. Early gave all his instructions, Mike spoke up again.

"Aaaw, crap."

"So I guess you got all that, huh?" I asked him. I could've been more specific, but I think he got it, and wasn't happy to hear he had to go in via ambulance and not just in the squad. Rules are rules, though.

I guess it was because I hadn't had to treat a buddy in a while—I guess _that's_ why it was getting to me so bad this time. I practically grabbed the IV pack out of Roy's hands, so I could start it up and get some morphine into Mike.

"I'm gonna place the IV in your cactus arm, not your busted one, okay pal? And then when the pain medication comes on board, you'll feel a whole lot better, and we'll splint you up." I said it half for him, because I always like to tell my patients what's happening, and half for me—just to remind me that I was finally gonna get to do something for him that'd make him feel better, not worse.

I scooted back around to his right side, and started looking for a vein. Real nice tan he had, but no veins in sight. Great—I really didn't wanna play "Go Fish." I pumped the BP cuff up a bit, and traced up and down his forearm and inside his elbow with my fingers—nothin'. I could feel one, a little bit, right where it should be, but I couldn't really see it. I guess it was because I was nervous of hurting him again that I started with the chatter.

"I'll tell ya somethin', Mike; I don't think I've ever seen someone dislocate his shoulder and not know it right away." I pumped the BP cuff up a little more, and poked at the one smallish vein I felt before. "Geez, Stoker, where do you keep your veins? Inside your bones? Roy, take a look at this, will ya?" I complained to Roy, but didn't let go of Mike's arm.

"Here, Johnny—try this one." I could see Roy's eyes avoiding Mike's impaled hand as he kindly marked the vein for me. Duh. I coulda done that myself, I guess. Must not be thinking straight. Yeah—I really don't like hurting the guys.

"Oh yeah, I see it now. If you can see it, you can stick it, right, Roy?" I turned back to Mike to issue forth some more inane chatter, which I'm sure he hated. But you have to give credit where credit is due, so I said it anyhow, even though I was sure he must be gettin' sick of listening to my voice. "Dixie's Rule One for starting an IV on the first try."

I swabbed the spot with an alcohol prep pad, and, keeping my mental fingers crossed, went for that vein. And nailed it. Whew. 'Cause I _really_ didn't wanna hafta go fishing. You work with a guy long enough, and you get to know him pretty well even if he doesn't talk a lot. And I'd noticed over the years that Stoker would do just about anything to avoid seeing blood—and sometimes when he did, he'd hit the bushes and puke. And the guys who do that? They're the same ones who puke or pass out when you fish around inside their veins.

"Hah, first try, even on ol' spaghetti veins here." Boy, I just couldn't stop with the chatter. I got rid of the needle, and taped the catheter and tubing down carefully. I went into the drug box and got a pre-measured dose of MS and sat back down on Mike's right, to finally do something to help him out a little.

"Okay, Mike, meet your new friend, morphine sulfate. Mike: MS. MS: Mike."

"Pleased to meet you," he managed, teeth clenched.

It was a little awkward, doing all this with him sitting on the running board of the squad. I had to squish right up next to him to get at the IV port to push the MS. But when I did, I was close enough that I could actually _feel_ some of the tension and pain bleed out of him. I was still holding onto his right arm, so I could feel that go a little slack. And he quit shaking—it hadn't been extreme, but definitely noticeable to someone sitting jammed right up against the guy. And he slumped over towards me, just a bit—like it's a good thing I was there or maybe he'd've fallen over. And he definitely unclenched his teeth—not that I could _feel_ that from where I was sitting—we weren't _that_ close, ha ha—but I could hear that his next words were a lot, uh, looser than his previous ones.

"Ya know, I don't think I actually need to go in to Rampart. You can just tape this shoulder up, or something, right? Hey Gage, check this out – how 'bout if I just pull these spines out – I'll bet I can get 'em with my teeth—"

"Whoa, there, Mike." Holy smokes. If I hadn't grabbed his arm again, he'd've actually tried to remove the spines with his teeth—I really think he woulda. "There's a reason why they wanna take those out at Rampart – sterile conditions and all, ya know?"

"Okay, Johnny, whatever you say." And man, he was grinnin' like an idiot. Blue eyes all sparkly—okay, maybe glassy might be a better word—and so many white teeth against his tan. Okay, he was definitely ready for the splint job, which I sure as hell hadn't been gonna start until he had something on board for that pain. Which I don't think he was feeling any of at that point. I propped him up as best I could and got to work.

"Attaboy, Mike," I said, as I began prepping supplies to wrap his shoulder up good and tight. I could feel his eyes boring into me as I taped a blanket into a roll, to put between his forearm and his body before I immobilized his shoulder joint. And what was that about, anyhow—those blue-grey eyes checkin' me out? If it'd been a different place, a different situation, and a different guy—you know, maybe one who hasn't had the same girlfriend for five years—I might've had some clue. But now? Nada.

"Wow," he said, still watching me.

I met his eyes briefly, trying to glean some meaning to attach to that one word. Wasn't happenin', though. I took the safe route—don't wanna leap to conclusions, especially not the totally outlandish ones that I was startin' to imagine.

"Yeah, that stuff knocks ya for a loop, don't it," I said neutrally. He was still watching me as I bugged Roy to come help with the around-the-body wrapping that would be next. 'Cause this fellow was none too stable, sitting on the shallow running board and loaded up with morphine.

Mike started babbling something about how he hoped this wasn't going to hurt, or bleed, as if it could, and that kind of reminded me that he wasn't in his right mind, so I oughta just ignore those looks I was gettin'. Whatever they were.

Roy and I had splinted probably a hundred dislocated shoulders, so we had our routine down pat. He'd get the arm where it needed to be, and I'd wrap it up. So unfortunately for him, he was kinda the bad guy on this one—getting the arm where it needed to be could be painful for the patient. So I was selfishly glad that it was Roy instead of me, especially when Mike let loose with "OOOOOW! Quit it, DeSoto!" just as Roy started moving his forearm.

I could see what the problem was, just as Roy pointed it out. "Johnny, I think this shirt is gonna have to come off to do this right. Kinda tight on the shoulder here."

I nodded, and grabbed my blunt-tipped shears to make quick and painless work of the job, but man, Stoker stopped me in a _big_ hurry.

"Waita second! C'mon, man, you already cut up my coat, do ya gotta cut up my shirt too? I mean, I've got a lot of these, and they're _really_ boring shirts, but c'mon, can't you just undo the buttons? That's what they're _for_, man. Don't they teach you anything in—"

I had to laugh—I felt terrible, but it just popped right outta me. For a guy whose average sentence length tended to be around two words, and sometimes only said a few sentences over a 24-hour shift, unless someone asked him something directly, Stoker suddenly had an awful lot to say. I think he caught me laughing at him, too, so I suddenly felt guilty. It really wasn't a good idea, to get that shirt and the t-shirt underneath it off the normal way, but I succumbed to his wishes, because I felt bad about laughing at him.

"All right, all right! Settle down, Mike. Have it your way, chatterbox. It'll be a little tricky to get the IV bag through the sleeve, but we'll manage. Now hold still!" I hated to order him around, but he was starting to fall towards me again, and I didn't want him to hurt himself.

I made quick work of the buttons, trying not to think too hard about what I was doing—which was undressing a hot guy, who I was pretty sure was watching my every move. Whoa, okay, so much for not thinking about what I was doing. I stopped for a second—when was it, exactly, that I started to think about him that way? Not that it mattered. Ridiculous idea anyhow. Plus it breaks Rule One.

Roy thinks Rule One is 'Don't get emotionally involved with the patient.' Hah. Shows what he knows. That's maybe Rule Three or Four. Rule One is actually 'Don't get involved with anyone who has fewer than three degrees of separation from the L.A. County Fire Department. Unless they're female.' _That's_ Rule One. And unlike so many other rules in my world, this one ain't meant to be broken.

Back to business, Gage. Back to business.

I did have to cut off the t-shirt, though, since there was no way that was coming off the usual way with a dislocated shoulder and a hand full of cactus spines. I had to pretty much hug him to do that, especially when he started kind of leaning towards me. And it was pretty hard not to read something into that, even though I was really trying not to. Right after I got that t-shirt off, though, I was holding him up, one hand on his chest, and I swear, even trying real hard not to read into the situation, I swear he was doin' it on purpose—leaning towards me, that is.

This was getting dangerous—for me, for him, and for Rule One. And let's face it—the guy was so high he really couldn't be held responsible for anything he said or did, and probably wouldn't remember half of it anyhow. So, using my very best grown-up judgment—the 'better judgment' that I always seem to be going against, but not this time—I rallied the troops.

"Ah, Roy, can you hold our friend up, there, so I can finish this without getting crushed?"

I couldn't help it—I watched Mike's face as Roy's hand took the place of mine on his chest. And honest to goodness, I _really_ think what I saw was disappointment.

Roy was holding Mike up, but I was actually getting a lot closer doing my job, which was winding an elastic bandage around his upper arm and body, to immobilize his shoulder joint. I could feel his breath on my neck as I passed the bandage around his back, and across the front again.

And he did it again. I swear, it _had_ to be on purpose. He leaned towards me again, and I was watching real close this time. I could see his nostrils flare, like he was, I don't know, breathing me in or something. Didn't stop me from doing what I needed to do, though, till he made this kind of whimpering sound.

So I carefully gave what would be the normal response, for the normal assumption that the splint job was really painful. "I know, buddy, it smarts, but I'm almost done."

Roy musta given Mike quite a look—which says interesting things about what Roy might've been noticing about this whole thing—cause Mike kind of talked back to him.

"Whaaaat, can't a guy just—"

But Roy interrupted, so I never got to hear the end of that sentence. "Hey Johnny, lemme finish up with Mike's wrist here; I think you oughta take a look at Cap. I think he did something to his leg, and isn't bothering to mention it."

"Huh? Oh, okay. You sure you got Mike, here?" I was surprised, to say the least, that he'd take on a patient with a little impalement problem when there was a nice, easy sprained ankle right there for the taking, but I figured he had his reasons.

"Yeah, I think I can get this situation under control," Roy said, utterly without expression.

And _that's_ when I knew for sure I wasn't making it up. Whatever "it" was. If Roy noticed something odd about Mike's behavior, then there _was_ something odd. 'Cause Roy doesn't make shit up out of his head like some of us do. So I toddled over to Cap, to check out his ankle.

"Okay, Cap; your turn. Let's get this boot off and have a look see." I worked his bunker boot off his foot, pretty sure I wouldn't see much other than maybe some swelling.

I was right—some puffiness and tenderness around the ATFL, right where ankle sprains always show themselves first. "Did you roll your foot under you, ya think?" I asked him.

"Yep—like this." He demonstrated, with a hand pretending to be a foot, the classic inversion that leads to a sprain of the outer ligaments of the ankle. I checked the head of his fibula for any obvious fractures, and found none.

"Probably just a sprain," I said, "and a minor one at that, but I'll wrap it up, and you need to get it x-rayed just to rule out a fracture, okay? You can ride in with me in the squad—keep me company."

Cap nodded. "Doesn't feel too bad. It's annoying, though, to think this probably wouldn't have happened if they'd just issue everyone a pair of nice, lace-up wildland boots for this kind of work."

"That's for sure, Cap. Seems like it's pretty expensive to have a bunch of guys off work for a couple weeks with sprained ankles that coulda been prevented with proper gear. Bunker boots are about the worst thing you could be wearing out here. No ankle support at all."

I wrapped his ankle with a nice, neat figure-eight pattern. And when I looked back to see how Roy was doing with Stoker, that's when I was _sure_ I saw it.

I knew that look—though I was used to getting it from across the bar at one of those pick-up joints, maybe, or if I was about to get lucky, from the passenger seat in my car or the other guy's car. But I'd never seen it coming from one of my shift mates. Until just then.

And the name for that look, ladies and gentlemen? Is desire, need, want. Lust. Whatever you want to call it. Despite the hundred-degree-plus-blazing-fire heat, I got goosebumps when I saw it. Or thought I saw it. No, I definitely saw it.

I mentally shushed myself as I helped Cap hobble over to passenger's side of the squad without twisting his other ankle. Quit it, Gage—overactive imagination. Get your mind back on your work, because that is _not_ the look you saw just now. No how, no way. Give the guy a break—he's got ten big ones of MS on board, so he's probably not even lookin' _at_ you—more like _through_ you, at this point. And even if it _was_ what it looked like, what of it? 'Cause first of all, Rule One. And second of all, even if it weren't an impossible situation to start with, what kind of chance would a guy like me have with a guy like him? Because, well, he's not the kind of guy I get picked up by—or pick up. I mean, he's … the only word I can think of is 'refined.' And I'm kinda the opposite. And that's all there is to it.

I picked up Cap's boot, and tossed it into the squad. I checked in with incident command on the HT, to let them know we'd be out an hour for the trip back and forth to Rampart. And as the Mayfair guys were getting ready to load Mike up into their wagon, I could hear, but not totally understand, a steady stream of verbiage emerging from this most unlikely source. And once more—just before the guys in white lifted the gurney—I got one more piercing look from Mike, and I knew I had a problem.

'Cause that look, coming from him—I liked it.

A lot.

But like I said, I don't wanna think about that right now, so I won't. I'll just drive Cap in to Rampart, nice and smooth, and we'll chat about this and that, and then I'll pick up Roy and we'll come back here and wash out some more sooty eyes.

"So how long do you think Stoker will be out with that shoulder?" Cap asked, as soon as we were on smooth enough road that conversation was possible.

"Hard to say—kinda depends on a lot of things. Like whether anything's broken in there, or whether any of the ligaments tore right through. Sometimes, they'll pop a shoulder back in, and then it'll come right back out again if the ligaments that hold everything in place are all torn up."

Cap thought about that for a minute. "So, they just pop it back in, huh? That doesn't sound too bad."

Oh, I really didn't want to go down that road. "Sometimes they can 'just' pop it right back in. But that hurts like hell, if only for a few seconds."

"And other times?" Cap asked, sensing my hesitation.

I sighed. "Other times, it hurts like a motherfucker, forever, while they try and try and try to get the ball back into the socket.

We drove along silently for a couple of minutes. I was thinking about getting out of town for a couple days—going somewhere with water, and real trees, and fresh air. Get this fire and everything associated with it out of my head.

"It was my fault, John," Cap said suddenly and quietly, interrupting my vision of redwood trees.

"Huh?"

"I guess I wasn't watching my footing carefully enough, and when I went down, I took Mike down with me."

"Cap, it was an accident. I'm sure he doesn't blame you."

"Yeah, but I'm the Captain—I'm supposed to keep my boys safe, not knock them down so hard they end up in the hospital."

Oh, boy. Did I have the mental energy for this role reversal? No, but once I'd recognized what it was I could work with that; make it easier on myself.

"Cap, think about what you would say to me in this situation—let's say I tripped and fell and took Roy down, and was feelin' rotten about it. What would you say to _me_ right now?"

Cap sighed. "Nice trick, John. But I'd tell you exactly what you just told me."

"And would you expect me to believe it?"

"Probably, even though I know you'd still feel bad."

"So I guess you're gonna hafta try to believe your own advice, even though you still feel like crap," I concluded.

Cap laughed. "You have a way with words, John. Speaking of which—Stoker. Wow."

I was curious to see where he might be going with this, but cautious, too. "Yeah—wow is right."

Cap did exactly what I was hoping he'd do, and just kept right on going. "I don't think I've ever heard him run off at the mouth like that—have you?"

"Nope—he was pretty loopy."

"I mean, you've probably never heard him spout like that, even though I think you probably know him better than any of the guys on the shift."

I _what_?

"Uh, Cap, I don't actually know him all that well."

"Well, I guess probably none of us do—but you certainly spend more down-time with him on our shifts than the rest of us. I mean, especially when Roy's not around, Mike's the one you talk to."

"I guess," I replied, "but that doesn't mean he talks to _me_."

I drove silently for a bit, thinking about what Cap had said, and realized he was right. Truth be told, there wasn't a lot of down-time when all six of us were at the station—the squad got lots of rescue-only runs, and the engine got lots of junk runs, like fire alarm activations, dumpster fires, and that sort of thing. But yeah—I guess I did kinda gravitate towards quiet Mike, especially when the other guys were being annoying. And maybe, what little I knew about the guy was ten times more than what others knew about him.

Like, for instance, I knew his parents were a bit on the older side when he was born, and they were retired up in Palm Springs, and that his dad had been a lawyer, and they were none too thrilled with Mike going into the fire service—'too blue collar for their uppity tastes,' he'd said once. And that he hardly ever talked with his folks or with his brother, for some reason he didn't want to say, but that he had a much-older sister who he was on okay terms with. And once I thought about it a little, I realized I was probably the only one on the shift who knew even _that_ much about the guy, and that made me a little sad, all of a sudden.

The rest of the way to Rampart, I thought about what Cap had said. He was right—I _did_ spend more time with Mike than the other guys on the shift did, but I didn't even realize I did. I mean, we'd chat about technical stuff, and sometimes I'd complain to him about my life, but he hardly ever said anything about his own life, and always found a way to politely redirect the conversation if it got personal.

"I kind of worry about him, you know," Cap admitted. We'd both clearly been thinking about the same thing for the last couple of minutes. "He's great at his job, and never gives me any trouble, but between you and me, John? I think he's pretty unhappy."

"Well, between you and me, Cap, then why don't we try to keep an extra eye on him over the next few weeks—'cause lemme tell you, it's gonna be tough for him to be on medical leave."

"You're certainly the one who would know about that, aren't you?

"Yeah, I s'pose I'm the voice of experience on medical leaves. It's prob'ly not so bad for you family guys, but for us single guys?" I shook my head. "Sucks."

I backed the squad into one of the ER parking spots. The Mayfair that had been carrying Roy and Mike was already gone—they'd probably beaten us by ten minutes, was my guess. I helped Cap out of the squad. "Actually, Cap, they won't let you hop around like that inside, so why don't I just go get the wheelchair now and save us gettin' lectured about how we oughta know better by now."

Cap laughed, and balanced himself against the hood of the squad. "Sure thing—I'll wait right here."

I popped inside and grabbed a wheelchair and trotted it back outside, spun it around, and put the brakes on so Cap could do his best to fold himself into the thing. 'Cause they're not made for guys with a 38-inch inseam, that's for sure.

I wheeled Cap in—he looked a little ridiculous, with his knees coming up above the arm rests, but oh well. I handed him off to the nurse who'd been waiting for us, and went to look for Roy.

I didn't see him around in any of the usual places, so I stopped at the nurses' station.

"Hey, Dix."

"Well, hello, stranger! Bet you're looking for Roy—he's in the lounge—no," she amended, looking behind me, "here he is."

I turned to see him right behind me. "Hey, partner—how's Stoker doin'? We oughta go check up on him—I at least wanna say hi before we head back to the fire. They reduce that shoulder yet?"

He shook his head. "No, they shot him up with a muscle relaxant a couple minutes ago; gotta let that kick in before they try to reduce it."

"Oh, well let's go say hi while he's waiting. Dix, what room is he in?"

Roy shook his head before Dixie could answer. "Sorry, no can do—he said he didn't want anyone in there."

"Huh?"

"What with the morphine and how he doesn't do so well with medical stuff, he's pretty queasy right now," Roy said, shifting back and forth on his feet. A sure sign he was nervous about something.

I squinted at him. "What's _up_ with you?"

"Me?" More shifting. "Uh, nothing. I guess, well, you know—the whole impalement thing."

"Uh huh," I said, "so why'd you shoo me away, then, and ride in with him yourself, if it was grossing you out so bad?"

Roy's eyes shifted nervously.

"Well, I—"

Whatever Roy was gonna say was cut off by an anguished yell, rising sharply at the end, and followed by two short, sharp yells that kicked me right in the gut. I doubled over, and leaned on the counter.

"I guess that's the shoulder back in," said Roy. "Hey, Junior—you all right?"

I had to work hard to breathe normally for a couple breaths. "Yeah—I'm fine. I, uh, just know how much that musta hurt him, is all." I straightened up and tried to look normal. "But at least it's back in now, huh?"

"Yeah," said Roy. "C'mon—we'd better get back to the brush fire. See ya later, Dixie," he said, as he steered me down the hall.

We hopped in the squad, Roy driving, as usual. The whole way back to the fire, we didn't say a word—not one word. I don't know what Roy was thinkin' about. But there was a whole lot that I was working on not thinkin' about. And like I said, I'm _real_ good at not thinking about stuff I don't wanna think about. Lucky me, huh?

~the end~

(Please PM me if you would like a link to the sequel, which is not on this site due to its rating.)


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